The collaboration
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: Three years after the Reichenbach Fall, John is invited to a small village in Sussex by academic Peter Sigerson to collaborate on a project about Sherlock's methods of deduction. Once there however, he discovers he's been missing a vital piece of information. Fluff and unrepentant Johnlock.


Title: The collaboration

Author: Mildredandbobbin

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Not owned by me, sadly.

Summary: Three years after the Reichenbach Fall, John is invited to a small village in Sussex by academic Peter Sigerson to collaborate on a project about Sherlock's methods of deduction. Once there however, he discovers he's been missing a vital piece of information. Fluff and unrepentant Johnlock.

Author's Note: For Tsylvestris as a thank you for all your wonderful help, sorry you had to beta this as well (but thank you, you make everything 1000 times better).

(See the end of the work for more notes)

**The collaboration**

As expected, the train journey was uncomfortable and boring. John had brought his laptop and spent much of the journey working on the second draft of _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_. Finally, after settling down to a uninspiring lunch of egg and lettuce sandwiches, John reread the email that had sent him on this journey in the first place.

_Peter Sigerson. _

Forensic science academic. John had looked into him before accepting the invitation to come up to Sussex to collaborate on Sigerson's project. He'd come up clean: young - only mid-thirties, reclusive, but a prolific author, having published over ten papers on topics even Sherlock would have found acceptable.

Now he wanted John to collaborate on a project to examine, as he put it, "the techniques of observation," using Sherlock as a case study. Of all the requests John had had for interviews, articles, and biographies, this was one he felt he could accept - a chance to defend, and better, _praise_ Sherlock's extraordinary talents. After all, wasn't he doing the same with his book?

He'd been emailing back and forth with Sigerson about it for well over three months now, and they'd had a pleasant enough phone conversation as well. Finally their schedules were aligned and he was on the train to spend the weekend and possibly a few extra days to discuss the project and hopefully make a start on it.

Finally the train pulled into the station. John alighted with his small suitcase and laptop bag slung over his shoulder. He looked around the deserted platform and double-checked the name of the station. No-one else had disembarked. The conductor's whistle blew and the train pulled out, leaving him standing there. When he checked his phone, there were no messages and no signal. Peter must be late. He walked across the platform and out of the station. Fields stretched out ahead on the other side of a meandering country lane. There was nothing useful like a pay phone anywhere in sight.

"Excuse me?" he said to the conductor, who was actually locking up his office. "Which way's the village?"

"To your right there, half a mile," the man said. John nodded his thanks and hefted his bag onto his shoulder as the conductor mounted his push-bike and pedaled off in the other direction. He would check into the pub he was staying at and call Peter from there. It was a warm spring day and the walk was pleasant enough - fields and hedgerows all around until John turned a corner and found himself in what had to be the village. It was quintessentially English, so much so that John almost laughed.

The manager of the Hare and Spaniel, as robust and hearty a man as he'd sounded on the phone when John had made the reservation, said, "Here's your keys then. You here for business or pleasure?"

"Business," said John, and decided to get a second opinion about his colleague-to-be. "Do you know Peter Sigerson? I'm going to be working on a project with him."

"Oh! Mr Sigerson. Well, yes, I do, in fact. Quiet chap, keeps to himself. Terribly clever though. Don't tell poor Constable Starling I said this, but he was ever so helpful when old George Everton was killed last Easter."

"Oh," said John, sliding his wallet back into his pocket. "He figured out who did it, then?"

"Something like that. Pointed out that George couldn't possibly have driven down to Bertie's Knoll by himself that night. Also pointed out that Dickie Mayhew was the bloke who was with him."

"Really? That is clever." John felt oddly put out by this person who could solve murders based on simple observation, as if John's best and dead friend weren't special.

"Caused quite a kerfuffle for poor old Starling, let me tell you, but Dickie confessed right enough when the evidence was laid out in front of him."

"Well," said John, because he really didn't have anything else to say. "I'm looking forward to meeting him."

"Right you are. Oh, breakfast is seven 'til eight. Up the stairs, to your right."

The room was fine: two single beds, neat, old-fashioned decor. It reminded him a bit of the inn they'd stayed in during the Baskerville case. By this time he'd grown used to these reminders of the life-that-was and it no longer stung but instead made him feel fondly nostalgic, reminiscing for a moment about that mad adventure. God, he loved that man, would probably always love him, truth be known. If only he'd told him.

John brushed the thoughts aside and unpacked his things. He realised he'd forgotten his toiletries bag, so he nipped downstairs to find the local store.

A middle-aged woman, neatly dressed, stood behind the counter in the little corner store. John found toothpaste, a toothbrush, razors, shaving cream, and deodorant and took them to the counter. He was feeling a bit peckish so he bought a chocolate bar as well.

"Visiting, are you?" the woman said, smiling brightly.

"Um, yeah, for a few days. Working with Peter Sigerson. Have you heard of him?"

"Oh yes. Odd man. Keeps to himself. Fancies himself an amateur detective, according to our Constable Starling. Still, he did help poor Maud Wainwright with that burglary last month. Backpackers," she said, giving John a conspiratorial look.

"Oh," said John. "Has he lived here long?" He handed over ten quid.

"About a year now; leases Hurlstone House. The _family_ hasn't lived here for about twenty years."

"Right." John pocketed his change. "Well, hopefully I haven't forgotten anything else."

He stepped outside and checked his phone. Still no reception. He went back to the pub and popped his shopping in his room then went back downstairs to find a pay phone. He'd just stepped into the small booth opposite the post office when a Range Rover pulled up beside him. A young man jumped out: tall, brown hair cropped short, and sporting a moustache. Sunglasses obscured his eyes but he wore a broad, lopsided grin as he bounded over to John. John replaced the phone handset and stepped out of the booth.

"Doctor Watson?" The young man took John's outstretched hand with both of his. "Peter Sigerson. I'm so glad you could make it."

The man's enthusiasm was welcome, if a little overwhelming. "John, please. Good to be here. Hope I can be of some help."

Peter must have picked up on repressive edge to John's tone because the grin faded and he deflated a little. "Oh you will, you will," said Peter. His voice was soft and light and he had a bit of a lisp. "How was the train? Not too horrid, I hope?"

"No, it was fine."

"Fine," repeated Peter as if to himself with a small smile, then grinned again. "Well, let's get going, shall we?"

John settled into the passenger seat of the Range Rover and watched picturesque countryside slide by, listening idly as Peter rabbited on about how pleased he was John could visit, how much a fan he was, how he hoped John would be interested in the project. After a short drive past fields and hedges, they followed a tree-lined drive to a rather impressive looking home. When Peter had suggested John stay with him and insisted there was plenty of room, John had thought he was just being polite.

"Home sweet home, for now," said Peter. He jumped out of the Range and dashed around to open the passenger door for John. He grinned widely again and John smiled politely as he climbed out of the car.

"So," said Peter. "I'll get Mrs Woods to put on some tea and I suppose you'd like to get started?"

"Uh, yes, I assumed I'd be here for the weekend, but I can extend it if necessary by a day or two."

"Wonderful," Peter beamed again. "Well - after you," he said. "We'll work in the conservatorium; lovely in there this time of year."

John waited while Peter dashed inside for a moment, then followed him around the house and through a side door into the glassed-in conservatorium. They sat at a wrought iron table and chair set and Peter began explaining his plans for the paper they'd be working on together. John listened carefully, acutely aware that this was Sherlock's legacy he was playing with. He interjected some corrections and suggestions, but on the whole, Sigerson's concept was reasonable and a worthy tribute.

An older lady arrived with a tea tray laid out for them.

"Thank you, Mrs Woods," said Peter, smiling apologetically as he shifted his folders out of the way.

"Well now, if this isn't the famous Doctor Watson you've been talking about all week. So glad you could make it, Doctor. If that Hare and Spaniel gets too uncomfortable, you're more than welcome to put up here for the night; it will be no trouble."

"Thank you, Mrs Woods, that's very kind."

"I'll leave you in peace now," she said with a smile before bustling off. John poured the tea from the china pot, then looked up to find Peter studying him with an odd expression on his face. He stopped, suddenly chilled by how similar it was to a look Sherlock had often worn.

"John," said Peter.

"Yes?"

Peter's mouth was a thin line, pressed flat. He leaned forward, still staring at John. "You don't see, do you?" he said.

"See what?" John asked, suddenly a bit disconcerted.

Peter took off his sunglasses and John's world tilted. Those eyes. _Those eyes._ It wasn't possible. It was not possible.

"What?" he said again.

"It's me, John," said Peter, and his voice dropped into a baritone and his mouth softened into fullness and how had John not noticed this before? "Sherlock."

John's chest was pounding. "No," he said. "No it's not, because that is not possible, because you are dead."

The hair was different, the moustache, the clothes, he was plumper maybe, but those eyes, that mouth, his nose, those cheekbones.

"I'm not, John. I'm in hiding."

"No. I saw you die."

"It was all a trick, it was a magic trick, like I told you- you didn't listen, you never listen -"

John hastily pushed his chair back and stumbled from the conservatory. He walked across green lawn until his legs crumpled and then sank to the ground. Sherlock. Sherlock. Not dead. Alive. Three years, thinking he was dead. He'd seen him jump - had seen him. Fuck. Fuck.

"Fuck," he said aloud, perhaps a little too loudly.

He felt rather than saw someone sit down next to him. Long skinny legs - how had he not seen this?

"You bastard," he said softly.

"You thought I was dead," said Sherlock.

"Yes. Yes I did."

"That - was not my plan."

John laughed bitterly. "Not your plan," he repeated, anger rising to the top of the sea of emotions roiling in his chest. "_Not your plan_...you jumped OFF A FUCKING BUILDING!" He saw Sherlock flinch but didn't give a damn.

"It needed to seem real, it needed to be believable. I thought - hoped - that later, when you thought about it, you'd realise, and then you'd be ready when I contacted you. John, you have to listen to me -"

"No, no, no, no, I don't have to do anything, because YOU ARE DEAD." John buried his head in his hands. "God."

Sherlock was silent. John took a deep breath, his anger slowly seeping down again. He turned his head and looked at the man beside him. Sherlock's expression was tense, drawn. He gave a sudden, choked laugh. "Oh my God, you're alive."

Sherlock's lips curved into a shy smile, the tension fading. "Yes," he said. "I missed you, if it's any help."

John laughed again. "Hah, not really, but good, good to know. I missed you- it hurt, Sherlock, really, really hurt."

Sherlock, to his credit, met his eyes. "I couldn't let you die, John, I won't be sorry for that, but...I am sorry you didn't know."

"Three years, three fucking years! You never thought to...you know...drop me a line?"

Sherlock huffed impatiently. "I was working on the assumption that you had figured it out! I knew you were dense, John, but really - _this,_ this is me contacting you. I've been emailing you for months! It wasn't until I collected you that I realised you didn't know after all - I admit I kept up the disguise, wondering how long it would take you-"

"Again - didn't know you weren't dead, you great prat!" He clenched his fists, irritation, hurt, anger warring with grief, relief, joy. He took another breath. "Why now?"

Sherlock did look away then. "I had to make sure you wouldn't be followed. This is the first time I could be confident - it's not safe, I shouldn't, but -"

John swallowed. "So. You still can't come home then?"

"No."

"Can you explain?" Questions, answers. Stick to reasons, explanations. Because dear God, if he didn't, if he focused on the anger - he wouldn't be responsible for his actions.

Sherlock's gaze snapped back towards him and he gripped John's arm. "Yes! I want to - there's so much to tell you. Please?"

John licked his bottom lip, caught by the intensity of Sherlock's gaze, his enthusiasm still infectious and overriding everything all over again. Just like it always had been. "Yes, all right," he sighed in resignation.

Suddenly Sherlock frowned. "Wait. If you didn't know it was me, what were the flirtatious emails all about? That phone conversation -" He dropped his hand from John's arm.

John blinked and suddenly felt his ears heat. "They weren't flirtatious. _That_ wasn't flirtatious." Okay, so he'd found his chat with Peter over the phone to be curiously enjoyable - still, it hadnt been _flirting_.

Sherlock stared back at him. "Well, _I _was flirting. I thought you were flirting. You weren't flirting?"

"What? No. Nope. Not flirting. I don't _flirt_." John searched Sherlock's face. "That was you _flirting?_"

"What? I was enjoying it." Sherlock looked affronted.

John shook his head, bemused, amused; everything was completely ridiculous. A smile fought its way onto his lips despite himself. "You were trying to flirt with me. That's, uh, that's very flattering, actually."

"Oh, don't."

"What?"

"Don't humour me. Fine. I misinterpreted the nuances of social interactions, as usual."

John ducked his head. "I'm - I'm not - just - stand down there, soldier, I'm still adjusting to the fact that you're not dead and I would really, really like to punch you very hard right now. Can we leave the rest of it until after that?"

"Ah." There was a pause. "Fine, punch me then, if it will make you feel better."

John shook his head. "Don't tempt me." He got to his feet, avoiding Sherlock's eyes. "I - I need to go for a walk. You won't go disappearing on me if I let you out of my sight?"

"No."

"Fine," said John and he walked off towards the orchard.

He walked around the grounds, sifting through memories, rearranging everything he had thought was true. Slowly the anger began to recede, but he couldn't just dive back into how things were, not now, not after everything. He couldn't even think about what Sherlock meant about flirting.

An hour later, he returned to the house and located Sherlock by following the sound of violin music. He paused at the door to what had to be the library. Sherlock stood facing a window, and despite the different haircut, the more padded form, John couldn't mistake him now for anyone else, could never again mistake the line of his body, the passion in his playing. It was painful and familiar and it made him ache. He waited for a long moment, watching, and then padded into the room and took a seat.

Sherlock turned as John's chair creaked and drew the melody he was playing to a close. He lowered his bow, the hope and trepidation on his face doing something uncomfortable to John's insides.

"Okay," John said. "From the beginning. Imagine I know nothing, because I probably don't. What actually happened?"

Sherlock sat down in the armchair opposite. "Very well," he said, and began.

They talked into the night. Sherlock explained and John listened, interjecting and demanding answers, marvelling and expressing his amazement despite himself. Sherlock's beam of pleasure at each exclamation didn't help John's resolution to remain aloof at all.

Mrs Woods brought them tea and food and bustled out again. Sherlock stopped talking whenever she entered the room. Not even his friendly housekeeper knew his real identity and Sherlock had to keep it that way.

Sherlock roamed about the room as he went through three years of details and data and explanations, climbing on the empty chair, pacing, looming over John at one point before whirling away and pacing again. Finally he flung himself into his chair.

"And so here we are," he said in conclusion. "And until I find out more about Moran, there's nothing I can do."

"Okay," said John. "Is there anything _I _can do?"

"No-" began Sherlock but then shot him a smile. "Keep me company?" he asked.

John licked his lip and looked away, into the flames flickering in the fireplace. "I have my practice in London," he said. "I can't just up and move here."

Sherlock turned his face away, staring up at the ceiling. "It's been tedious without you," he murmured.

John chuckled lightly. "Good, glad you finally appreciate me, then."

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment. "Will you visit? They're still watching you, but if we keep my cover, you should be able to come up here at least monthly."

The way he said it, as if John's agreement wasn't guaranteed, caught at John's heart. "_Sherlock..._Yes. Of course I will."

And Sherlock exhaled, as if in relief. "Good, that's good."

"I can extend this visit by a few days, if you like."

"You will?"

"I've just got you back, prat, I'm not about to let you out of my sight just yet."

Sherlock's gaze didn't shift from whatever he was studying on the ceiling. One of his arms hung towards the floor and the other lay across his stomach. Absently he rubbed his hand over his belly, pushing up and under his t-shirt. "And what about when you go to bed, John?" he asked, his voice low. "Will you let me out of your sight then?"

The warm, pleasant feeling of companionship and reawakened friendship that had been diffusing through John most of the evening suddenly flared into another type of heat. _Oh._ His heart rate ratcheted up a notch and his face flamed.

He swallowed. "Not if you come with me," he said.

Sherlock's gaze flickered towards him. "Is _this_ flirting, John?"

"Yes. Yes it is."

"Ah. Good." And then Sherlock caught his eye and John found himself grinning and in a swift movement, Sherlock had swung himself out of his chair and crossed the space between them. He knelt at John's feet, hands clenching the arms of the chair as his eyes searched his face. "I've thought a lot, John, about you. It doesn't make sense, this need, wanting another person, all this _sentiment_, but I can't stop it, and here you are and I -" He swallowed, eyes still searching John's urgently, and he seemed suddenly so uncertain that John took pity on him and reached out his hand, cupping his jaw.

"It's okay," he said. "When I thought you'd died, there were lots of things I regretted, all the things I never got a chance to say...the things I wished I'd done. But you're not dead. You're here. I'd like a chance to do those now." Heart hammering, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Sherlock's full, slightly parted lips. And suddenly he was falling and Sherlock's hands were fisted tight in his shirt, holding him up, close, his breath warm and panting as their mouths tasted and clashed, teeth, noses bumping, the barest hint of tongue, just fierce, firm pressure.

Then Sherlock was pulling John down onto the floor with him, or maybe John was pushing Sherlock but either way they both ended on the rug in front of the fire, John rising above Sherlock and kissing him, kissing him and holding him and pouring into that kiss all the years of hurt and grief and loneliness, all the sudden anger and relief flooding into this moment. They moved against each other, John shocked by how aroused he was and aroused even more by the fact that Sherlock obviously felt this too, hard against his hip, small whimpered sounds of pleasure, _of want,_ against his lips. Gradually the kissing slowed, and they rocked against each other in a slow burn of pleasure, arms tight about each other.

It was good and painful and suddenly John's eyes stung. He drew his mouth away and pressed his face hard against Sherlock's cheek. "Don't ever fucking do that again," he bit out. "Never."

And then Sherlock was rubbing John's back soothingly and murmuring against his ear; "I won't, I won't, John, my wonderful John, never again, shhh, shh," and it was only then that John realised that he had been crying and he turned his face away and wiped at his eyes as Sherlock held him close. He huffed a laugh and nuzzled his way back to Sherlock's mouth, kissing him firmly. "Sorry."

Sherlock hummed against his lips and then turned him onto his back, kissing his jaw, his chin, his throat. "Don't. You are perfect, completely perfect. Sentimental and wonderful and perfect." Words, peppered against his skin, from cheek to collarbone and then Sherlock was unbuttoning his shirt and pushing up his vest and pressing more kisses to his chest and ribs and belly and it was all John could do to hang on.

His belt and trousers were undone. "Lift," instructed Sherlock and John obeyed, lifting his hips as his trousers and pants were swiftly pulled down and replaced by Sherlock's mouth. "May I, John?" he murmured, mouthing at his hipbone and the soft skin beside it.

"Yes, God yes," John breathed, and he was so hard, and each accidental brush against his cock made him harder.

It had been a while, and the fact that this was _Sherlock_ was doing his head in, so it only took an embarrassingly short time before he was warning Sherlock that he was about to come but Sherlock was still sucking his cock anyway and the whole thing sent him over the edge, trembling as he came into that obscenely warm, beautiful mouth. He scrambled up as soon as he could, pulling Sherlock into a kiss, reaching for the tent in his trousers, pushing him back, undoing his fly, his pants and then doing his best to undo him too. John was sure he was useless at this, but he aimed for enthusiasm and effort rather than technique and Sherlock didn't seem to mind and at least he didn't last long either and John almost gagged but managed to swallow before he was pushed off and down and soundly kissed in return.

They lay there, naked from thigh to chest, pressed against each other, giggling a bit, kissing a bit, holding each other close.

"I've been thinking about doing that for three and a half years," murmured Sherlock.

John did the sums and placed a kiss on his chest. "And you only had to fake your death to make me realise I felt the same."

Sherlock hummed appreciatively. "I think you would have come around eventually."

"I thought you were married to your work."

"Hm, I thought you were straight."

"Yes, well, so did I."

Sherlock laughed, a wonderful low chuckle of amusement, the rumble of it right at John's ear. He snickered in response. "_Sher-lock_," he said, drawing out the word, letting it roll around his mouth like something delicious. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock."

"John, John, John," rumbled Sherlock, and it was so good to hear that John couldn't stop grinning.

Two weeks later, John alighted at the small country train station and climbed into the waiting Range Rover. The driver, a young man known to the locals as Peter Sigerson, greeted him with a pleased smile, and John squeezed his knee once before settling back, never letting his eyes leave the other man's face.

"How long can you stay?" Peter asked, and it was not the same voice he usually used when around the village.

"Three nights," said John. "Maybe four, if I catch the early train Tuesday."

"Four it is," he said firmly, and if he noted the small pleased sound John made, he didn't mention it, but his hand did rest on John's thigh, just for a moment.

The End.

Note:

I cannot take credit for the theory that Sherlock was telling John by saying 'it's a magic trick' - it's been mentioned a few times especially on tumblr (sorry the links got wiped out but they are up on the A03 version)


End file.
